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<title>chess is stupid and you are too by tepidAnathema (rainw3tered)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155420">chess is stupid and you are too</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainw3tered/pseuds/tepidAnathema'>tepidAnathema (rainw3tered)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, M/M, Quadrant Confusion, no beta we die like men</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:15:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,886</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155420</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainw3tered/pseuds/tepidAnathema</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Chess,” you repeat. Then again, because the suggestion is so inconceivable that you can’t believe he has the gall to come and say it to you. Are his shameglobes made of steel, or does he just not care that he’s a walking, talking public service announcement in the making? “Chess. You bricked my god damn <em>grubtop</em> for fun <em>last week</em>, you massive, bulgehuffing load of abscessed nookrot, and you’re here to play fucking <em>chess?</em>”</p><p>“That’s what I said, yeah,” he affirms, like there’s not a thing wrong in the world.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>chess is stupid and you are too</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is some very watery blackrom on the meteor. like, not vantablack, or black 3.0, or even black 2.0. ain't even black, man. it's a medium toned, grey-beige bathroom wall.<br/>also, it was really just an exercise &amp; so that i could recycle the 1st para which i wrote for rp, so yeah.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Your name is KARKAT VANTAS, and you are UNPLEASANTLY ANNOYED, which ranks above IRRITATINGLY DISGRUNTLED but marginally below VISIBLY IRATE on your personal echeladder of viable emotions. Not that you rank them, or keep a list, or anything else absolutely inane like that, but a troll ought to keep their hatefeelings in appropriate check to avoid overstepping proper boundaries, and you think you've got a reasonably decent handle on the gamut that yours run. And if Sollux calls you a hateharlot <i>one</i> more time, you'll see how much his shitty bifuricated doddering helps in the face of your <i>entirely</i> bridled and <i>perfectly</i> platonic rage.</p><p>
Unfortunately, as the door to your respiteblock is slammed open and an obnoxiously red cape makes its appearance, you have the unpleasant suspicion that your completely justified feelings will be levelling up rather quickly.  </p><p>
"Vantas."  </p><p>
"Strider," you say. His hands are shoved into his pockets. Casually, maybe, and you’re loath to actually give him any credit, but it irritates you how easily he affects it. “What do you want?” </p><p>
“Can’t a guy check up on his best bro,” he says flatly. It isn’t a question. It's the farthest thing from the truth. You’re tempted to scoff. It’s exactly the reaction he’s trying to provoke, and you know that, and you know that <i>he</i> knows that you know that, but it doesn’t stop you from doing it anyway. Loudly. You don’t have the energy to rip into his stupid irony schtick today—though you’re still positive he doesn’t even know what the fucking word <i>means</i>, considering everything. </p><p>
He brushes nothing off his shoulder before he continues. “I was thinking, y’know? And shut up, don’t say ‘what a surprise’, maybe you’ve never done it before, but everyone else has. Anyway, it isn’t like there’s much to do on this piece of shit rock, so let’s play a game. Chess?” </p><p>
“Chess,” you repeat. Then again, because the suggestion is so inconceivable that you can’t believe he has the gall to come and say it to you. Are his shameglobes made of steel, or does he just not care that he’s a walking, talking public service announcement in the making? “Chess. You bricked my god damn <i>grubtop</i> for fun <i>last week</i>, you massive, bulgehuffing load of abscessed nookrot, and you’re here to play fucking <i>chess?</i>” </p><p>
“That’s what I said, yeah,” he affirms, like there’s not a thing wrong in the world.  </p><p>
For all you know, he doesn’t think that there is, which is another problem entirely. “And don’t get your panties in a twist, dude. I told you already, wasn’t ‘on purpose.’” He makes air quotes with one hand, then shrugs it to the side, as if you’re just being unreasonable. The other hand is still in a pocket. “Terezi was messing around with the alchemiter. Thing’s a menace, honestly.” </p><p>
“Well? Are you coming or not?” Dave says after another minute, and momentarily, you flounder. Your fingers are still hovering over your keyboard, and peeved mustard text blinks in the corner of your screen. Whatever. You slam your newly restored grubtop closed (but carefully, because you’re not a complete idiot, alchemiters apparently don’t cover data restoration, and you don’t want Sollux to bitch at you for another hour about being too incompetent to handle any of the poor, innocent technology). </p><p>
“I know you aren’t exactly all there,” you say, conversational, pushing your chair back into place, “but why exactly are you wasting my time with this heinous excuse for entertainment? I could be doing things. Things with actual value, instead of spending my sorry existence twaddling around with a primitive nookstain with an ego bigger than this entire thrice-damned meteor. </p><p>
“And for the record, asswipe, I’m perfectly aware that someone had to <i>aim</i> the fucking thing. Coffee doesn’t go flying fucking <i>sideways</i> by default.” </p><p>
“Like what,” he says, still perfectly blithe. He’s leaning against the doorframe, and you imagine that he’d have his arms crossed, but the bastard probably thinks he’s too cool for it, or some other shit like that. Coolness being dependent on self-imposed limb restriction sounds absurdly arbitrary to you, but what do you know? You don’t care. “No need to have a conniption, man. Going to file a complaint on me or some shit? Better head straight to the PTA and write the chairman a fucking letter, how about ‘Fifty Shades of How I’m a Whiny Bitch.’” </p><p>
“The hell’s a Pee-Tea-Ay supposed to be?” </p><p>
“Something you’d like.” </p><p>
“Whatever, shit-for-brains.” </p><p>
As you exit your block, you make sure to shove your shoulder into his. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment.  </p><p>
The rumpusblock is empty, and you’re not sure if you’re thankful for that. On one hand, there’s nobody there to ameliorate Strider’s very presence. On the other, there’s nobody there to see you in its proximity. You sit down in front of a table of games, and begin picking through boxes to find the chessboard. Opposite you, Dave sprawls himself across his armchair, legs swung over one side.  </p><p>
“Dibs on white,” Dave announces.  </p><p>
“Fuck you, I got the board. I’m playing white.” </p><p>
“Yeah, but I got you to play, didn’t I? Check and mate.” </p><p>
He turns the board around without bothering to ask you, and begins setting up his back rank. “Don’t worry, Vantas. We can trade later, ‘cause you’ll need any advantage you can get after I completely <i>annihilate</i> your shit.” </p><p>
“Who says we have to follow your stupid human game standards?” you grouse. You place your pawns first. “It isn’t like there are that many of you on this fucking meteor. Trolls start with black.” </p><p>
“They don’t,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I’ve played Kanaya.” </p><p>
Well, you tried.  </p><p>
You’re eight minutes into the game when you slide your queen diagonally, just right. </p><p>
“Check,” you say. You can’t help it if you sound a little smug. </p><p>
“Uhuh,” says Dave. He moves his king out of check. You squint. You can’t tell if his expression has changed at all, or if he’s still locked into his poker-faced bullshit, and that pretty much lines up with exactly how productive you expected your guessing to be. Which is, to say, not at all. </p><p>
Not that it matters. For the next two moves, you check his king twice. On the third, he manages to slide a rook down to take your queen, but you’ve got a pawn in place to take his rook and more pieces still alive. Your bishop advances. 
 </p><p>“Check.”</p><p>
He moves his last knight to block your bishop, and you— </p><p>
“Hey, wait a fucking second,” you say, because that was an <i>illegal</i> move. “You can’t move your knight like that.” </p><p>
“Says who,” Dave says.  </p><p>
“Says the rulebook,” you say. “It can only move three squares, you blithering waste of space.” </p><p>
“I only moved it three spaces.” He drags his finger across the spaces in question slowly, lazily. Pointedly. </p><p>
“Two spaces vertically and one horizontally, or the opposite. None diagonally, shitheel.” </p><p>
“Human rulebook.” </p><p>
“The human rulebook doesn’t say that shit, you fucki—” </p><p>
“But the troll book starts with black, huh?” he asks, voice pitched high in a mockery of questioning. “Really, Vantas?” </p><p>
You are a picture of serene, placid calm. There is nobody calmer. You could win a dozen troll Oscars, take home an entire cast’s worth of troll Golden Globes, and still you would be lacking an award to adequately delineate the exact breadth of your tranquility. You take a breath. “Fuck you.” </p><p>
“Pass,” he says, gesturing at the board. “Kinda busy, if you couldn’t tell.” </p><p>
It isn’t his turn, and you haven’t even moved yet. He leans down and slides his sole knight in front of your king anyway, then looks back up. Despite the shades, you’re certain that he’s staring you in the eyes.  </p><p>
“Checkmate,” he drawls.  </p><p>
It wasn’t anything even resembling a legal move. He’s <i>perfectly fucking aware</i> that it wasn’t. </p><p>
You refrain from flipping the board over for a moment, and then he makes a small, self-satisfied hum, and you give in and flip the fucking board. Pieces go flying. One pawn bounces off Dave’s cheek. </p><p>
“Ow,” he says, still infuriatingly monotone, not a hint of inflection to be found in his voice, and you can’t stand the awful bulgesucking douchebag lounging before you like some shitty, knockoff, temporally-displaced noble for another minute. A part of you wonders at that comparison, and that part immediately corrects yourself to “peasant”.  </p><p>
The rest of you lunges across the table. </p><p>
His blonde hair is fanned out against the wrinkled black moobeastskin. You’re suddenly acutely aware of how heavy you are. More importantly, you’ve come to the realisation that you’re on top of him, and even as you think, your knee is stabbing into his bloodpusher cage, pinning him to the armchair. The sunglasses have gone crooked. </p><p>
Bewildered red eyes stare up at you. You can’t decide if you’re a fan, and then you hate that the option even made its way into your clearly addled pan. This close, you can see the faint dusting of freckles across his cheekbones. There’s a pale pink flush to his aural lobes. Briefly, his mouth falls open slightly, before he actually reacts. </p><p>
“Wai—what the hell, dude?” he says, stumbling slightly over the first word, hands scrambling for delayed purchase. One lands on the edge of the table, and the other grabs your arm at the elbow, twisting it. His knee comes up to your side, jabs you in the acid sac, and then you’re winded and gasping for breath beneath him (when did he flip the two of you? You have no fucking idea). </p><p>
Most of his face slides back into blankness, all confusion gone. He pauses a moment, licking his lips once. A slight smirk appears, and now you’re sure: you absolutely <i>hate</i> it. “Can’t even wait to take me out for dinner, huh. For shame.” </p><p>
“That—that’s not what I’m doing,” you protest, suddenly feeble. Your grip slackens. You don’t know what you’re doing anymore. As usual, past Karkat is nothing but an unreliable taint on the face of existence. You’d curse him out, but you’re otherwise preoccupied. </p><p>
Dave digs short nails into your skin. If you were human, you would probably bruise. The urge to punch him in the face resurfaces, and it competes with one that’s suddenly telling you to crush your face <i>into</i> his, and hey, where the fuck did <i>that</i> even come from? </p><p>
You compromise, and headbutt him. He doesn’t so much as blink before he slams back down onto you with his cranial plates, and then he snarls or are you snarling you can’t tell you’re too busy trying to clock the fucker in the jaw but you’re both tumbling off the sofa onto the carpet as you do your best to show him that he’s messed with the wrong troll and you’ve got a clawful of cloak and an armful of human, and you ignore the fact that you went physical first. </p><p>
You roll to a stop, and you’re on top of him again, but just barely. His shades are nowhere in sight, and he fixes you with a look that’s almost amused. Hands spread against the ground, he makes an exaggerated come-hither motion. </p><p>
“Well. Don’t leave me hanging, Mister Vantas,” Dave says, voice in that ludicrously grating falsetto yet again. </p><p>
For once in your life, you oblige. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>will karkat knock dave's brains out? will they kiss? something else? who knows? not me</p></blockquote></div></div>
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